


Bruises

by AquaWolfGirl



Category: Pan (2015)
Genre: Bit of Cursing, But Some Romance?, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Mostly friendship, Slight Nudity
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-07
Updated: 2015-11-07
Packaged: 2018-04-30 12:20:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,736
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5163641
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AquaWolfGirl/pseuds/AquaWolfGirl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After four days of being punched, kicked, beaten and falling off of multiple ships, Hook's a little worse for wear. If there's a healer still alive in this camp, then Tiger Lily's bound to know. A bit of hurt/comfort and a smidge of romance between Hook and the princess Tiger Lily.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bruises

**Author's Note:**

> The lack of work for this movie is absolutely dismal. So I'm contributing my little piece. There's a bit of cursing, because it's a thing grown ups do, to take a page out of Hook's book. Slight romance, not too much. And Hook's shirtless through a good portion of it so have fun imagining that. Hope you enjoy!

The bruises on his skin are deep. Mottled purple and blue and a bit of yellow around the edges. He winces as he looks down at them, poking them with a curious finger and hissing at the resulting twinge of pain. He immediately rolls his eyes at his own stupidity - it's a bruise; rule number 1 is 'do not poke'. 

The ones on his back and chest are the worst, the pain lacing through the muscle almost all the way down to the bone. At this point, his face isn’t exactly pretty either, not with how many times he’s been punched over the past four days. 

Four days. 

In four days, he managed to get himself wrangled up in this whole mess. He managed to escape the mines he'd been in for almost as long as he can remember, stole and flew two ships, got himself captured by natives, helped to defeat Blackbeard, collected over two dozen orphans from a London orphanage, and made friends with a tribal princess and the son of a fairy prince. Over the course of four days. Incredible. 

He groans, running a hand down his face and wincing at the bruises that he brushes over. It's a long shot, considering the amount of natives who died at the hands of pirates, but maybe looking for someone with some healing capabilities would help. It's worth a try, at least. Otherwise even breathing will hurt in the morning - not like it doesn't already.

He pulls his shirt back on, buttoning it loosely before pulling the vest on. He doesn’t bother buttoning the vest for comfort's sake, instead leaving it open as he makes his way through the native’s camp. It's dark, night having fallen a little while ago, but the lights of the torches help him along his way. 

When they came back, the place had been mostly destroyed, thanks to the ransacking of the pirates. But it’s good enough for now. Most of the walls of the tents have been fixed thanks to diligent survivors, the colorful fabric patched and sewn back together. He moves aside as a pair of boys run past him, laughing and chasing each other with makeshift swords, moving in and out of the firelight. It's past what would have been their normal bedtime at the orphanage, and Hook smirks a bit as he recognizes rebellion when he sees it. There's no one to force them into bed here - and so they won't. Go to bed, that is. 

He looks around at the camp. It's smaller than it was before, but not at all sadder. Yes, there were lives lost. Things destroyed. But the threat of pirates is no longer hanging over their head, and Neverland is safe. 

He’ll have to help rebuild. He’ll need to contribute his part, eventually. He told Tiger Lily he was home, yeah, and that’s all good and romantic but at the end of the day home isn’t in the native camp. He doesn’t belong here, in this place of color and drums and fabric. He knows stone and metal and wood. The mines were not home, but they're more familiar than the vibrancy the camp offers. He's not going back there, but he can't stay here.

Hook makes his way through the camp, walking on the wooden boards that lead to the chieftain's tent. She's chief now, he guesses. Unless someone else steps up. Or she forfeits the position. He doesn't know. He doesn't have a damn clue about their customs. 

“Princess?” He raises his hand, hesitating. How does one knock on a fabric door? He chooses one of the posts instead, rapping his knuckles against the wood. 

The brightly colored and patched fabric peels to the side a moment later. Though he can’t see her, he takes it as a sign of invitation, and steps inside, boots loud on the wooden floor of the tent.

“Was wonderin’ if you had a healer around here,” he mutters, eyes taking in the sight before him. It's a pretty nice tent - much bigger than his. He can see the bed surrounded by colorful curtains, and there's a small sitting area with cushions and couches for conferences. He can't see much besides that, given the low light. 

When they’d returned to the camp, they’d discovered the chief’s tent ransacked by pirates, almost torn apart in their effort to find the map. Tiger Lily’d done the best she could given the circumstances, and he can see where things have been fixed. Sewn back together, reinforced. He could see where broken pieces have been removed entirely to allow the new to fill in. 

“You’re hurt?” 

He hearts her voice behind him and turns. He resists the urge to curse under his breath. He must’ve caught her in the middle of dressing for bed, because gone are the metallic feathers and adornments she usually wears. Instead she wears a loose shift, shoulders wrapped in the same fabric he'd seen her wrapped in when they watched the sunrise that third day. The shift's bright blue, colorful like the rest of their society. But it's so different than the clothes he's seen her in. The pink around her eyes is absent. She still looks like a warrior, despite lacking her usual armor. Her shoulders back, head proud, eyes regarding him curiously. 

He runs a hand through his hair awkwardly, hissing softly at the muscles pulled because of it. “A bit, yeah. Your Pan - not Peter, the other one - did a number on me.” 

Hook can’t see her face in the low light, not clearly, but he catches a bit of it and she looks like she's wincing. “I’d forgotten,” she admits.

She’d forgotten he’d gotten beat to shit by their greatest warrior. Great. Fantastic. “Yeah, well, it hurts, so do you have a healer or not?” He doesn't mean to snap, but everything hurts and he just wants to be able to sleep somewhat soundly through the night. 

She turns. His eyes follow her figure as she moves around the tent, going to a small cupboard. He can’t decipher the carvings on the side, doesn’t want to. His head hurts enough already. She pulls out a small jar made out of hollowed stone and makes her way back to him. The light makes the bones of her face look sharper than usual, and he inwardly wonders if she's mad at him for interrupting her. She doesn't look particularly mad, but one couldn't tell with her.

“Let me see," she demands. 

“Uh.” He blinks at her, then the jar in her pale hand, then back at her. “What is that?” 

“Warrior’s salve. We use it while training,” she explains, pulling back the fabric covering the top to reveal a thick, purple goo. “While it doesn’t help with the appearance, it helps with the pain.” 

“What’s it made out of?” he asks, frowning as he leans a bit closer. It smells herbal, floral. Despite the pretty smell, it looks … disgusting, to be honest with himself. And sticky. 

“Does it matter what it is made out of? It works. That is the important part,” she answers, raising a dark eyebrow at him before gesturing to one of the wooden pallets covered in bright fabric and pillows. “Sit.”

“Guess not," he mutters, hoping to Hell and back that he isn't allergic to something in it. Never know on this messed up island. He hesitates a moment before shedding his vest, folding it lazily and setting it on a nearby stool. He unbuttons his shirt as quickly as he can to reduce the awkwardness, folding that as well before sitting where she'd directed him.

He looks up at her, and notices her eyes following the pattern of black and blue. He raises an eyebrow in question. 

“Were those all our Pan?” she asks, stepping forward. Apparently it's worse than he thinks it is, because she looks properly worried. He's so taken aback by the fact that she's worried about him that it takes him a moment to respond.

He shrugs, and winces at the pain that comes as a result. “I don’t even know, at this point. Could've been him, could've been Bishop. Could've been the fact that I've fallen off of two ships over the course of four days."

She’s getting closer, walking forward with the pot of salve. “You fought better against him than most.” 

“Yeah, well,” he mutters. “I’m not exactly used to a bouncy fighting ring. We fought with fists in the mines.”

“You fought?” She moves around to kneel behind him. Her fingers find one of the bruises on his left shoulder. He hisses a bit at the coldness of the salve, but the gentleness of her fingertips makes up for it. She’s done this before; he can tell. Probably dozens of times. Probably on herself. Maybe even recently.

“Sometimes. Winner won prizes. That sort of thing. No money, but better equipment. Clothes. Food. That sorta thing."

She hums, and her fingers move to his other shoulder. He can’t tell if it’s working yet, but he’s not complaining about her hands on his skin. “You won?"

“Yeah."

"Often?" 

"Reasonably." 

"What did you win?" 

"My hat. Need to get a new one of those, by the way."

He can’t tell whether she’s smiling or not, with her behind him. The girl?-woman?-princess? seems to have two facial expressions - stoic and smiling. “And your coat?” 

“Stole that when our ship crashed in the Neverwood. That hull had all sorts of random stuff in it. Think I saw a boxing glove in there. No idea what for." 

Her hand moves to the bruises between his shoulder blades. “The bruises here are deep.” Her fingers are light as she trails over the marks, and then she presses harder as she applies the salve. He hisses softly at the soreness, but doesn’t move away from her touch. He thinks he hears a soft apology, but he doesn't respond. Instead, he chooses to close his eyes and grit his teeth as she gently rubs at the bruises with goo-slicked fingers.

“That’s what happens when you’re kicked into a staircase, sweetheart.” It comes out gruffer than he means it to, with his teeth clenched in pain. 

The fingers on his skin lighten. She apparently hasn't taken offense, as there’s a soft snort behind him, and he grins in response.

He can feel her touch, just below his left shoulder blade. Or, rather, he feels her fingers around a certain area, and guesses she’s found the scar there. The nerves there are destroyed, he knows, and her fingers feel more like ghosts than anything. The touch tingles, and he shudders a bit. She doesn't move her fingers even as he shivers, tracing the large pink mark.

“… what is this from?” She sounds almost horrified. He winces a bit. He can't see it, could never see it. He doesn't know how ugly it is. He can feel it, feel the rough skin there, can feel how big it is, but he's never seen it. Is it really that awful?

“They took their pickaxe to my back instead of the rock,” he explains, voice soft and low. “That’s what happens when you ask too many questions. I learned that lesson fast.” He snorts. “Tried to teach it to Peter, too. Damn kid didn’t listen.” 

“It’s a good thing he didn’t," she observes.

“Yeah,” he agrees. 

Her fingers are still tracing the jagged edge. “It did not heal cleanly.”

“They don’t exactly have magic purple salve in the mines. No healers. You get sick, you take care of yourself." He takes a soft breath in. "There are others. Scars, I mean. I got off lucky." He can't resist saying, "They didn't touch my pretty face. Others weren't so fortunate."

Her touch becomes a bit harder at his teasing, and it almost feels like a warning. He resists the urge to yelp as she reaches his lower back, near where his pants end. He knows the bruising there’s deep, too. That area took a lot of damage, with him falling on ships and off of ships and the like. 

“The mines sound horrid.” 

He shrugs again. His shoulders feel tight. The salve, he guesses. “You got used to it.” 

Her fingers slow, and he can hear a sharp intake of breath. “There were children in the mines," she realizes.

He hesitates, before agreeing with a slight nod of his head. “Yeah.” 

“What will happen to them?” she asks. 

He moves his hand to run it down his face. Too much thinking. Too much planning. They’d only just gotten back from bringing Peter’s friends back to Neverland. He can’t process all of this quite yet. “I don’t know," he admits with a sigh. "I’m positive there are still some of Blackbeard’s supporters there. He wouldn’t leave the mines without supervision. We’ll have to clear them out or something, and then get the kids to safety."

She shifts behind him, getting off of the cushions. She moves around to the front and tugs a stool over so she can sit in front of him. He notices that a good portion of the jar is gone, and he wonders if the bruising was really that bad. “Where will they stay?” 

“No idea,” he admits. He does have an idea, though. One. And it’ll take time and lots of hands, but it might do the trick. He's silent for a moment before asking, “Any idea how much those trees can hold?” 

“They are old and strong.” Her fingers trail across his collarbone. Her fingers are stained purple, no doubt from whatever the salve is made out of. “They will hold.” 

“Ever heard of a treehouse?” 

He catches a hint of a smile on her face. “Children love treehouses.” 

“That they do.” 

“You intend to build some for them?” 

“Maybe.” He wants to shrug, but her fingers are there, and he doesn’t want to displace them. “I’d need supplies. And help. I'll have to plan. Maybe make them interconnected so that they can move through the trees."

“I can get you both supplies and help. And parchment for planning.” 

“Then I’ll ask Peter in the morning what he thinks."

She nods, eyes falling down his chest. She seems to hesitate for a moment before reaching towards his bare skin again. He's blushing, he can see, the pink flushing his chest a bit when he looks down. He's grateful she doesn't say anything about it, instead focusing on the task at hand. 

They fall silent for a few moments. He relishes in the feeling of her fingers on his skin. Granted, it’s not in the way he would’ve really wanted, but it’s enough. The salve’s warming now, on his back, relieving some of the pain that comes with the bruising. He sighs a bit as the soreness in his muscles is eased, and sees her smile. 

“Sit up,” she directs, and he straightens his back as she moves lower. She traces the bruises on his stomach. The salve doesn’t look as disgusting on his skin as it does in the jar. It sits on top of his skin, and he might be without a shirt for a while, he guesses, until it absorbs, but it’s not too bad. And it’s not nearly as sticky once it’s rubbed in. 

“… thanks.” 

Her fingers freeze for a moment, her eyes flickering to his before she continues rubbing the salve across the bruised skin. “What for?” 

“Helping. It’s workin’. The salve, I mean. I think. Is it supposed to make me feel tight? Hot?" 

She hums an affirmative, moving upward. The tribe's warrior had kicked him square in the chest a good few amount of times, and his skin’s dark across his pecs. He can recall the pain, the wind getting kicked out of him repeatedly. Not fun. “I’m glad. That it's working.” She hesitates. “Does Peter have bruises as well?” 

“Maybe,” he replies. He wants to shrug again, but her fingers are on his chest and he doesn't want them to move. “Then again, he wasn’t in the fighting ring for as long as I was. Pan didn't hurt him."

“I apologize for our actions." 

“You didn’t know.” He hisses as she hits a tender spot, and regrets it immediately as her hand pulls back as if his skin was fire. “It’s fine, it’s fine, just … ow.” He gives her the best grin he can muster. 

She returns after a moment of hesitation, finishing with the bruises on his chest. “Are there bruises here?” She brushes her fingers across his arms. He can't recall being hit there. Sure, they're sore from all the hanging on and moving and hitting he's been doing the past few days, but are they bruised? Not really.

He shrugs. “Not as bad, no. Mostly chest, back and face.” 

Hook isn’t expecting the fingers on his face, brushing across the stubble there. He isn’t expecting her this close. The fingers retract for a moment and return with fresh salve, moving it across his jaw with care. 

Her eyes are dark. He can’t really decipher anything in them, despite how hard he’s trying to. He wishes he'd come to her in the daylight. It would've been easier to see her face, then.

“I made one of these,” she mutters, thumb brushing across one of the bruises on his cheekbone. He winces a bit, but this time she doesn't pull her hand away.

“I deserved it.” He snorts in surprise as, in her rubbing, the salve hits his nose, cold and wet. She brushes it away with a small smile. 

“I do not believe you did. I was rash, and hit without thinking.” 

“Did you hit Smee as well?” 

“I did not. Though I wish I had.” Her fingers slow as she moves to the other side of his jaw, where the bruising was deeper. “He was your friend?” 

“Was,” he agrees. “Stopped bein' my friend as soon as he opened his big mouth to Blackbeard. Figures. Man was only in it for himself.” 

“We won. That is what matters.” She cups his cheek, and he leans into it despite himself. God, how long was it since he was touched in a way that didn't result in pain? He can't remember the last time. 

“And the kid finally found his mother. Kind of.” He grins, and winces as it pulls on the tender skin. She returns to put more salve on the bruises. She moves to his forehead and the bruising near his temple, most likely from Bishop.

“Yes, he did. He found her, and his home. He found where he came from.” She tilts her head, and he’s half expecting the ‘clink’ of the metals she usually wears in her hair. “… do you know where you come from?” 

He remembers some things. He remembers cold winters and grey skies. He remembers threadbare blankets and low fires. He remembers wood and metal and windows that show a black city skyline. He remembers smoke coming from that skyline, constantly, but he can’t even hazard a guess as to where it was. London didn’t look familiar. He shakes his head. “Not really, no.” 

She pulls her hand away, deeming him finished. She pulls the fabric taught over the top of the jar and ties it tightly again. “And yet you thought that was home.” 

“Thought. Past tense,” he clarifies. “Here’s home now. Well, not here-here, but Neverland.” 

“You don’t wish to live here?” She hesitates on her way back to the cupboard, turning towards him and frowning. He has to twist a bit to look at her. The salve's tight on his skin, drying there, and he frowns in discomfort. 

“I’m not used to color,” he explains. “I mean, it’s great here. But I’m not used to it.” 

“You’re leaving?” she asks, stepping towards him, frowning.

“Not far. Maybe live in one of those treehouses or something. I don’t know.” He smiles her. “But not far. I promise.”

She puts the jar back and returns to sit in front of him. “I was wrong.” 

“About what?” 

“You.” 

He’s pretty sure his eyebrows shoot up high into his hair line. “Pardon?” 

“You are brave. And honorable. You returned for us. Without you, we could not have won.”

“I’m sure you would’ve managed.” 

She hesitates before nodding, staying silent. 

The salve’s warm on his skin. His pain melts away, and he looks down at the purple that’s slowly absorbing, and presses his fingers to it. His fingers warm almost immediately, and he moves it between his forefinger and thumb. “Now can you tell me what’s in it?” 

"It's the pulp of a plant that grows around here, with some of the lichen from the rocks of Mermaid Lagoon." Then she smirks. "And ground crocodile scales." 

He looks down at the salve. "You've gotta be kidding me." 

"I am."

Hook looks back up at her, raising an eyebrow and grinning at her smile. "So the princess does have a sense of humor. Not just all warrior, all the time, huh?" 

He can see her cheeks darken even in the low light, and his grin widens. 

"You should go to bed. There is much to do tomorrow," she observes, standing and grabbing his shirt and vest for him. "Avoid putting cloth on it until it absorbs. Otherwise it will stain your shirt. The color will come off of your skin with warm water, but it dyes cloth." 

"So walk through the camp half naked?" he questions, raising an eyebrow. "Why, if they wanted a show, they could've just asked." 

The look he gets is completely deserved, and he gives a small snort and a smirk.

"Kidding, princess," he says, sincere. He looks down at his bare chest. It's still coated in purple, but it feels a lot better than it had before. He could get a good night's sleep now, without the pain. He hesitates, before bending towards her.

It's soft and sweet and a bit too quick for his liking, but he bends to kiss her cheek in thanks. Her skin's soft against his lips, and he swears she leans into his touch before he pulls away. He's blushing bright red, he's sure of it. "… thanks. For the salve and stuff," he mutters, nodding before he leaves the tent. 

He doesn't see her press her fingers to her cheek. Doesn't see her smile.


End file.
